I settle for Real Estate. Although it's a tricky maneuver, I avoid the section about the declining economy and fix my eyes on the left side of the page. Fantasy home of the week: "Wood-and-glass custom home rustic right down to the oak trees around it". Perfect.

As if this were the first time I found acceptable reading material in my life, I develop tunnel vision. All I see is a single block of bold, about point size 11 sans-serif text. "Rustic, two-story wood-and-glass custom home surrounded by mature oak trees; beamed ceilings; five beedrooms, three baths, mirrored fitness room; 5,000 square feet; 21 years old; half-acre-plus; four-car garage; tiled west-facing deck; bay and valley views."

I move my eyes carefully to the picture. Wow. It's beautiful. My dream house. I think fleetingly about how I previously denounced the thought of having a "dream house" as shallow, materialistic. It doesn't matter. Right now, all I care about is this house. My house, my beautiful house, my beautiful lifebeautifulhousebeautifullife. My boyfriend and I can live here forever, this is our shelter, this is our beautifullifebeautifulhousebeautiful life. Because all I care about is this house.